"burnt dinner"

21/30

My lips are sunburned by the thought of you
the rays, they tickle like sunshine and
scald like overcooked dinner

You remind me of
absolutely nothing familiar.
I study the instruction manual of your palm
for clues to your efficient operation,
I dig into the dirt
mound where you hide your secrets
and maintain the shovel isn't mine.
I speak to the birds who grace your window
chirping your praises in interpretation,
revealing more than your
eternally blank stare.
You're empty so I paint you
in the prettiest of greys,
may you never shower off my
efforts of delicately faded shades.
A marking melts like
the warmed-over ice in
espresso to awaken you,
leaving but a watered-down jolt.

Like ice
I hold you in the palm of my hand.



(note: I know I took some liberties with this prompt, but I could not help but run (away) with it.)